His hands remember
by dulce-melos
Summary: Four months or four decades ... either way, Dean remembers.


a/n: Hiya. Here's a little something. A little "first Supernatural fanfic" and "stream of consciousness" kind of something, both of which I haven't done before. This just ... appeared in my head and so, I had to write it down. Hopefully, I made it work…

Takes place takes place a bit after S4:E10 – Heaven and Hell. Warning - angst is kinda these boys' bread and butter, so. Yeah.

 **Disclaimer** : For entertainment only, no disrespect is intended and no profit is being made.

* * *

His hands remember.

Remember how it felt to be held and helpless, for moments, minutes, hours.

Days, months.

 _Decades._

How he twisted and pulled, unable to break free. Alistair working on him, remaking him with tools of metal, wood and words. He remembers how his hands, so capable, that had protected him his entire life, shielding him, wielding knife or gun, did nothing. Useless fingers clenching, spreading and unable to do anything at all, as agony overwhelmed and the demon laughed, tearing him down.

Over and over and over again.

His ears remember, how long he screamed without anyone to answer, until his voice broke on his brother's name. He remembers the hopeless sound he made, torn from his throat unwilling. And how soon it had come, too soon for pride, too soon to last for the eternity he knew would follow.

His heart remembers. It remembers breaking under the realization that no one was coming. It remembers how he'd hoped and feared, both that his brother would find a way to free him or sell his soul trying. How he'd waited and screamed and suffered, for moments, minutes and hours. Days, months.

Decades.

Until he just _couldn't_ , anymore.

His hands remember. They remember the feel of the blade and hooks. Pliers and sharp pointy things. The heft and chilling bite of them, his fingers tightening on the metal, when someone new was put on the rack. Yes, he remembers. How each of those things felt, as they sunk into, tore apart … and _created_ something new and worn and terrible, out of each of the souls he touched.

His ears remember. Remember the sounds the souls made, and how he relished their writhing agony after the torment, the anger and humiliation he suffered. He remembers how even as he smiled, dark and terrible, he was breaking inside. How he knew, he just knew, that this was something he could never truly come back from.

His heart remembers. Remembers the day he felt it shatter. The day he said, "Yes," trading his own pain for others. And stepped off the rack. He remembers the hate and rage that filled him, for each of Alistair's smiles. He remembers the way the demon stroked his hair and called him his pet. Remembers the loathing in his heart at how easily his body and spirit had been broken.

Until finally,

By someone's grace,

It ends.

But he can't forget, when so much of him remembers.

It's night and the motel room is dark. He tries to rest, but the night flashes red behind his eyelids whenever he attempts to sleep.

He cannot bear the thought of closing his eyes.

"Dean, it's okay."

Sam knows. He's always known.

He doesn't answer. There is only a shaky exhale, when he curls up on the bed across from Sam's and rolls away to face the window. "Sorry, Sam," he mumbles. He hears how weak his voice sounds. How it trembles on his brother's name.

"Dean."

"Go back to sleep, Sam," he snaps. But the words don't come with any heat, or strength. His soul might be back, but his spirit isn't. His heart and hands remember and all he hears are screams.

He's not strong enough for this life any more.

"Dean." The bed shifts as his brother sits next to him. His presence there, solid and real.

"No, Sam. I-I can't …" His brother can't see his face, so doesn't see him bite his lower lip to keep the sob from breaking free. He takes a breath and then another, but they come too quickly to help him gain any control.

And when a third breath comes and he knows the inevitability of what will follow, Sam stops waiting and puts his hand on one bare shoulder, making Dean jump.

His brother's hand is warm. It doesn't hurt. Or twist or tear or anything else. But he's still shaking and he can't make himself stop. Sam makes a sound that he can't identify and it distracts him from the screams. His brother tugs, sharp and insistent. Unbidden, Dean lets go of the blankets his hands are fisted in, sitting up.

And then, without bothering to turn him around, sasquatch arms are folding around him. Fingers over the backs of his hands, gripping tight. Wiping away the memory of hooks and chains, blades and pliers. A heartbeat against his back, strong and steady and beating in time with his own.

Warm breath in his hair, erasing the feel of a demon's hands –

And a voice, drowning out the cries of all those souls.

"It's okay, Dean. I've got you."


End file.
